Chapter 4 - THE THRESHOLD OF INK & IVY: WHEN THE PAST WALKS OFF THE SHELF AND INTO A RAINY AFTERNOON
The rain was drumming a steady, soothing rhythm against the large plate-glass windows of Ink & Ivy bookstore as I shook out my yellow umbrella and stepped inside, greeted immediately by the intoxicating, comforting aroma of old paper, vanilla candles, and roasted coffee beans.
It was my favorite refuge on Tuesday afternoons after finishing my editing shift for the week.
I wandered down the narrow aisles, my fingers brushing along the spines of contemporary poetry collections and indie paperbacks, enjoying the quiet hum of conversation and the soft jazz playing over the store’s vintage speakers.
I had just pulled a leather-bound volume of Pablo Neruda from the shelf when the bell above the front door chimed, admitting a blast of cold Seattle wind and the sound of someone shaking off a wet coat.
I didn't look up, continuing to flip through the translation pages, savoring the poetic cadence of the verses.
Then, a voice cut through the background music, sharp, melodic, and instantly recognizable across three thousand miles and eighteen months of absolute silence.
“Excuse me, young man. Can you tell me where the regional biography section is located? I’m looking for something substantial, not this modern fluff.”
My breath caught in my throat.
The book in my hands felt heavy, sliding slightly against my palm as my fingers went completely numb.
It couldn't be.
It was a phantom of my imagination, a nervous reflex conjured by the rain and the lingering ghost of twenty-seven years of conditioning.
I slowly lowered the book, my heart pounding a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs, and peered through the narrow gap between two bookshelves toward the front cash counter.
Standing beneath the warm overhead lighting of the bookstore was Diane Wilson.
She wore an immaculate camel-wool trench coat, a silk scarf tied with geometric perfection around her neck, and carried an expensive leather handbag that looked entirely out of place among the leaning stacks of indie paperbacks.
Her platinum-blonde bob was still as perfectly styled as it had been the morning she told me my absence was her best birthday gift.
Beside her stood Robert, looking slightly older, his shoulders slightly more rounded, wearing a sensible navy raincoat and holding a silver-handled umbrella.
They were here.
In Seattle.
In my bookstore.
Three blocks from my apartment.
What were the mathematical odds of the universe conspiring to drop my Boston family into the exact indie bookstore I frequented three thousand miles away from Elm Street?
Panic, hot and sharp, flared in my chest.
My first instinct—ingrained by decades of survival—was to bolt.
To slip out through the back alley exit, run back to my tiny Capitol Hill studio, lock the deadbolts, pack my suitcases once more, and catch the first flight south to California or north to Alaska before they ever laid eyes on me.
I took two steps backward, my sneaker squeaking slightly against the polished wood floor.
Then, a voice behind me spoke.
“Looking for something specific, miss?”
It was the young store clerk, stocking a shelf of staff recommendations right beside me.
Diane’s head whipped around at the sound of the voice.
May you like
Her pale blue eyes swept down the aisle.
And she froze.
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